0/
The old fortress on top of the hill?
…
Nothing in particular, I'm just surprised you asked. You've never shown much interest in this town.
…
No, I'm just glad you're asking. After all, you're going to take over the family business one day.
…
Don't say that in front of your mother. You know what she would do if she heard you were seriously considering going to New York of all places.
…
Wait… your mother is heading up there? Are you sure?!
…
Stay inside. Lock the doors. I'm going after her. That idiot! Even when I told her I'd take care of it if anything happened, that she didn't have any obligations to them anymore.
…
You've never met your maternal relatives because they're witches who live at the top of that hill. Your mother's ancestors… they were once called Icecolle.
1/
Lately, my mind has been on my sister. She's… not with us anymore. In fact, my sister has been dead for more than ten years. As a member of our illustrious family, there was no way she died from a paltry accident in the workshop. Neither was the cause a symptom of living in the degenerate modern world like a car accident. My sister died with her fiancée while taking part in a magical war.
While I might call it a war, there were fewer than fourteen combatants. Even so, one of those wars causes enough destruction that even a career soldier would turn aghast. Therefore, I can't help but wonder if my sister had the same look on her face when she died as the corpses of these fifteen hunters littered around me.
"What a waste."
To be a magus, a researcher who delves into the maelstrom of mystery, is to live side by side with death. Any misstep, any imprecision with the connection to a magical formula can immediately lead one into his demise. But that is only an occupational hazard – just like how a chemist must handle dangerous chemicals or a laborer has no choice but to operate heavy machinery. Training can only prepare one for so much; after all, no matter how much of a mystical machine a magus may try to turn himself into… at his core he is merely human.
But I am one of the thirteen above that rabble, a Lord of the Clock Tower. Even if it's only a trickle, I will undoubtedly detect any magical energy that seeks to harm me.
In reply, magical energy rushes from my magic circuits into the familiar that shielded me from the ambush that disposed of all fifteen associates. Like my pride, my familiar is unassailable; it would take at least a spell on the order of High-Thaumaturgy to harm the Monstrous Beast.
"Surprisingly under-equipped and underwhelming. And what have you Lords of the Association always called us? Second-rate, we believe? Yet, how quickly the mighty fall when they leave their sheltered tower."
A voice reverberates from a drum wedged between the ceiling and the wall closest to me. It's a quaint drum, no doubt a relic of the savage indigenous magical foundation in this area. Some poorly tanned animal skin with painted-on markings stretches across the pan. There are some swirls and some crosses but I can't make out any meaning – again, no doubt the relic of a backwater magical foundation that does not work anywhere else in the world. This is evident in how the mystic code seems only capable of amplifying a sound. In the base, technological world, devoid of magecraft, one might refer to it as a "wireless speaker."
"No doubt, dear mistress; after all, why would we send our first or even second-rate hunters for the remnants of third-rates who couldn't even successfully secede?"
A thud and brutal silence for a moment as the mental blow settles – just as I thought, wench. Do not think your jabs can even compare to the herculean blows delivered in a Clock Tower power struggle.
With that thought behind me, I can sense a stronger flow of magical energy in the floor behind those heavy birch doors – the next trap, then. If it is coming from the floor, it is nothing more than a child's game.
How degrading.
With one motion, I grip onto the mane of my familiar and throw myself across her back.
How unpleasant.
Not my familiar, of course. She is the pinnacle of my craft – enough that I could call her the Supreme Mystic Code of my family. I have heard the stories about the familiar of the magus who quelled the Dead Apostle that was to be Disemboweling Sea of Trees and I believe mine not an inferior product.
However, as we approach the next stage in our conquest, I can't help look back at the already fallen. Just looking at them slightly offends me. There's enough sympathy for the families of these poor hunters. Yet, what a waste, not even being able to make it through the first ambush. So much for a rescue. Then again, isn't that the reason I personally forsook my responsibilities to join this little expedition?
Yet, I just can't shake one image, one thought.
I said, how unpleasant.
How unpleasant, was the first thing that came to mind when I saw the savagery that is so rare yet so commonplace in our magecraft-laden world. Lately, my sister has been on my mind, so would I think the same thing if I were to have watched her die as well?
"If this is the best you can do, enough with your childish games and show yourself!" I attempt to throw my voice so it echoes but the hazel walls absorb the sound. She heard my proclamation though; I can see those obnoxious drums hanging in the corners of this room as well. Surely, they must work as a microphone as well.
"You are the real deal, aren't you? And with a familiar that swims through a sea of materialized curses without any protection…"
"Don't flatter me. You wouldn't even need a specialist to freeze grudges on this level."
"Flattery? No, we would never. Not flattery, not for you. What we don't understand is why you would go to such lengths for such a single person. We understand the El-Melloi faction making such an effort, but you – why have you come so far away from the dungeon you call a home? This has nothing to do with your department, faction, or family."
"There's no need for me to take the moral high ground here. The person in your care has certain skills and certain things that I require. You have that person. You have refused to negotiate. Therefore, I have come to take what is currently yours."
"Are you rationalizing the burglary of another's workshop with that excuse? Truly, you are the real deal aren't you, Lord," she spits out the last word.
I'm not a Lord yet, but I'm too tired of this farce to correct her.
"But if what you say is true then you are not a party in this cold war. We have no reason to obstruct your path. These defenses are meant for an army, not a single, petty thief," she continues. "Thief you may be, but you are still the next Lord of Eulyphis – let it be known that we have shown you respect befitting your station."
The drumming stops. I can hear a multitude of traps being deactivated as doors open. Smiling slightly, I motion my familiar to continue marching forward.
About time.
After riding through what seemed to be a never-ending corridor, the final pair of birch doors crack open announcing my arrival.
"Bram Nuada-Re Sophie-Ri, welcome to our humble abode," someone proclaims from inside the darkness.
There are too many lanterns in the room for the darkness to be truly smothering. However, there are not enough lanterns to illuminate all the corners of the room. Yet, even if I am only able to see a few meters above me, I'm certain the ceiling is littered with drums.
Like a concert hall. How vain.
And at the edge of the darkness is a throne made from birch and hazel, just like the walls and doors in this fortress. Are the legs fused into the wooden floor, or is the floor merely part of the throne? Either way, such an effect can easily be arranged with a few commonplace spells. Yes, that throne may as well speak for the entire house, the entire family.
Nothing but a second-rate house pretending to be aristocrats.
It is a common theory among magi that our ancestors were kings. For that reason, many of the twenty-three families and other noble houses have built castles. But for a degenerating family that ran away from their foundation to-
"We hope your familiar found those spirits palatable. A Soul Eater, is she not?"
My familiar brushes her scales against my hand as I rub underneath her maw.
"Yes." That is annoying to admit. "She enjoyed them very much, thank you for that, Icecolle."
Hearing her name, she rises from her fake wooden throne and walks into the soft lantern light. Like any other practitioner of the dark arts she smells like death. Sacrifice is a large part of spiritual evocation; however, it is not enough that the smell stains our skin. She is different. She is a magus whose entire being is based on cursing others. While that stench may overcome lesser magi, she is nothing special.
"I am glad you have deferred to reason and chosen to parley. Now…"
"No." Softly, with eyebrows creased she shakes her head.
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
With a fluid swish, she turns around, the back of her almost backless pitch dress facing me. Devouring all the soft light that tries to reflect it, the dress itself seems as though it was made of the same curses in the hallway.
"This is no parley. We merely invited you to this room to discuss the terms of your ransom."
I want to let those words sink in, but they repeat so many times in my head that they stay afloat.
"A Lord you may be… one day," she snaps a gloved hand outward in exasperation while the other goes to her hip. "But today you are undoubtedly a thief. And in this land, in Siberia, do you know what we do with thieves?"
"Before you tell me what is done to thieves, shouldn't you tell me what is done to kidnappers?"
She chuckles at that before turning to face me.
"Sola-Ui Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, your sister's name was it not?"
There is no expression on my face. But yes, that is the name of the sister who has lately been on my mind.
She takes my silence as a confirmation. "We do not presume to know the nature of your relationship with her. However, if you had those who killed her in your grasp, would you let them go just because a Lord said he had need for them?"
I…
"The 726th Holy Grail also took our sister, the former scion of the Icecolle, away too. You see, Bram, sweetie, we are the same. So then, we know what you would do if an interloper came into your house wanting to steal your chance at revenge."
She turns and faces me with a smile as black as her dress.
The same? How dare you even consider us comparable!
"Go-!"
My familiar lunges towards the witch at my magical energy infused command, but Icecolle is faster. Curses erupt from her dress – it must be some sort of mystic code – but no matter, none of them are strong enough to harm my familiar. All the spells will harmlessly bounce off her scales, fur, and hide. In the next second an overwhelming amount of muscle will flatten Icecolle into a bloody stain on this hardwood floor that will be impossible to clean.
That's what should have happened, but my familiar never lands. Yes, it may have effortlessly nullified all the curses, but while mid-air something erupted from inside of its belly. Like three grenades consecutively going off, the force of the explosion throws her against a wall. That isn't the worst of it though as her entrails shoot forth, wrapping themselves around my familiar and choking the life out of her.
"Bram, sweetie, you are truly impressive. To be able to use a phantasmal species as a familiar – why, wouldn't you be a match for one or two Dead Apostles."
"Get up! Get up, right now!" With each word, I force more and more magical energy into my familiar. Too fast. That happened too fast so there's no way this can be the end.
Using all of its own magical energy and what I supplied, my familiars manages to upright herself. My priority should be breaking Icecolle's control of my familiar's innards and then healing the wound, but dispelling a curse is like dispelling destiny itself. Expending that much magical energy on a possibly fruitless task when I don't know what is ahead… That would not be a good idea. However, my familiar is my only offense.
"How fitting for someone who has only seen the world through the eyes of the Clock Tower. Recreating the body of a Soul Eater and then forcing it into the shape of the Devourer of the Dead, Ammit! Half of us wonders what you used for the core to bind those two concepts. The other half is truly astonished with how textbook she is."
"It's not anything a dying blood-line like yours could recreate!"
"Without a doubt. Our dying bloodline neither has the time nor resources to attempt to fuse two alien magical foundations. But then again, it wasn't all that difficult, was it? Considering Europe's fervent Egyptomania from the eighteenth century onwards, the mysteries of Ancient Egypt are rather well established in the British consciousness. For instance, there are many places in London with strong Egyptian influences. And doesn't the British Museum have a permanent Egyptian exhibit, too? But do we even need to go that far? If you want to use Egyptian magecraft you can find it in Madam Blavatsky's Theosophy, if you aren't afraid of sinking into 'Modern Magecraft,' Lord."
"You… Don't…!"
"Don't what, you hack? Lay bare your mystery? Your crowning achievement? But Bram, sweetie, it's not that tough to work out. Popular magecraft, this is all your familiar is, popular magecraft. It's equivalent to a Gandr, a Snap, or some lackadaisical fireball.
"Still, these must have been some fine ingredients to have created a replica on this level. You're nowhere near the original, but her hide's magic resistance and her soul-eating efficiency is quite superb."
No matter how much they are humiliated, a magus does not reveal another's mystery.
There is a myth that when a magus reveals himself to the public, he loses his power. The reality is the Association just sends an assassin to kill that magus. Magecraft is a power steeped in mystery. A mystery only has meaning because it is a mystery. The more people who know it, the more people who can use it, the weaker the mystery becomes and eventually it is degraded into nothing more than a method. Revealing the mystery is the equivalent of destroying that magecraft; not just for the user, but for all those who relied, rely, or will rely on that mystery. And she, so nonchalantly just…
"But you see, that was your downfall. Look around you, what do you see?"
I don't understand. It might be bigger than the standard Siberian hovels I saw in the town below but it's the same: the paneling, the door frames, the wood… the wood. But it's only a different color, isn't it? No, it's an entirely different type of wood.
"Yes, the Icecolle clan's pride and our greatest shame is immigrating from Western Europe in the Middle Ages. The witch hunts were so horrific we fled to a place where the Church had negligible influence. But we never forgot where we came from – what we lost. This fortress is a testament to that."
Broomsticks might only be mystic codes that allows for a limited form of flight. However, the modern image of a witch requires her to have a broomstick. The broomstick carries the witch during her debaucherous midnight flights; therefore, one might say the broomstick also carries the very soul of a witch. Furthermore, broomsticks are traditionally made of birch and hazel – sacred trees very much connected to the spiritual world in more than several cultures – adding strength to the concept and magic formula.
"How on earth did you ever think you could compare, sweetie? How could your flimsy familiar made from some perverse imperialistic fascination compare to centuries of persecution and suffering this family has faced?"
It… can't.
This throne, this floor, these walls, nay, this entire workshop is alive. While it may not draw breath, while it may not be able to move, the [ruby=curses and lamentations]hopes and dreams[/ruby]of all the Icecolle witches are one with the castle, one with the magus standing in front me.
If I had all the resources that Eulyphis has to offer, crushing this entire area would be a trifle. With only a half-dead familiar on the other hand….
She lifts an arm and points deep into the chasm above us. At her command, magical energy lights up the ceiling. The glow is so bright that I can finally confirm the ceiling may as well be made of drums.
"Let us be a good hostess and explain for you." She curtseys until her black dress looks like its eating the floor. "These drums are the Icecolle's shame and salvation – the shamanic drums of Siberia."
Not only revealing the mystery behind my familiar, a major mystery in this workshop? Can she be so assured of my death? Even so, no magus would ever–
"In Siberian traditions, there are two types of shamans. The 'white' shaman, and the 'black' shaman. The former are healers and diviners."
With knowledge of the world that is a mystery to his peers, the witch doctor who advises his tribe is the original and classical magus. He holds the power to see what is to come, the power to heal those who were hurt, the power to lay the dead to rest. Whether their power was from science or magecraft… No, back then it didn't matter at all, it may as well be one and the same. Either way, what they were able to do was truly Magic.
"And the 'black,' or warrior-shaman who cursed his enemies and blighted their livestock and crops," she continues.
The concept of a warrior-shaman is not foreign to that of a witch. Immigration from central Europe shouldn't be an issue. As long as the witches are regarded as "black" and curse the populace, why shouldn't they submit to the humiliation and integrate themselves into this magical foundation as black shamans.
"And the greatest tool for the black shaman are the drums above us." She waves her hand. "When played correctly they can attract vengeful sprits. We can harvest their regrets and convert them into curses or magical energy. But you mustn't think of the drum as a mystic code, sweetie."
I've heard about magecraft tools like these before. The item is everything that the user wants it to be, not just a mystic code, it is also a familiar and a spiritual guide. To call it a mere wireless speaker… still, even in this disadvantageous position I will not retract my former statement.
"One specific use for these shamanic drums is as a bow. You see, look right here." Icecolle smiles and a drum falls from the ceiling into her hands. She traces a slender, gloved finger over the curved handle of the drum. "A bow to shoot those who endanger the black shaman."
I can see all the drums on the ceiling now. The innumerable number of curses aimed at my struggling familiar and myself. It's pathetic, it's beyond pathetic.
"And now that we've explained that to you, do you want to hear how we did your familiar in?"
There's no need to explain that. My familiar's hide may be very resilient to magecraft but her insides are not. The spirits that she ate were filled with grudges. I'm the successor of the [ruby=Eulyphis]Department of Spiritual Evocation[/ruby], I know and will admit that much. If these drums are able to amplify one's voice, then they should be able to amplify curses as well. No, perhaps their original purpose was to amplify curses – the wireless speaker function is just a party trick. After all, the only way to hide a mystery is to obfuscate the observer into believing that it is a different mystery entirely. A phenomenon created in order to hide another phenomenon only draws attention to itself.
Hook, line, and sinker.
I laugh and raise my hands. "Very good show for a third-rate. I give up. I will grant you whatever you wish."
She turns her head to face me – her eyes as cold as her namesake.
The atmosphere freezes just for an instant, but when it thaws, a never-ending barrage of curses rips my familiar apart. She is no longer recognizable, just a mess of scaled and furry flesh. But the thought of all the time I wasted making her never crosses my mind because-
"Bram, sweetie, do you honestly believe we would let you leave this workshop?"
Move. Get out. Get out now. You can throw your pride away for all you care, you just need to get out this instant because this woman is dangerous.
Screaming, I sprint to a window and attempt to throw myself into it, but a curse slices one of the tendons in my leg. I can't move it anymore. No matter much I try, I can't move it anymore and the pain is so intense, just so intense that I don't think I can generate any magical energy.
Brought down low, I can only crawl.
Am I going to die? No, that shouldn't be a question. Lately, my sister has been on my mind. She died fighting a magical war in a backwater country and I think a little part of me thought that was a slightly pathetic death. How does having the third-rate successor of a third-rate family curse you to death compare to that?
"There's no use moving. Your familiar can't help you." With that warning, Icecolle starts slowly walking towards me. At this rate, she's going to get to me before I reach my familiar. Wait, can I still call her my familiar when she is nothing more than a bloody mess on this hardwood floor?
I'm scared and I want to scream. I want to scream so much, but it hurts. That's why all I can do is try my best. If I die, at least I will die with my work. At least there is a modicum of dignity as a magus in that. Lately, my sister has been on my mind so I can't help wondering if this is also what she believed.
That this world is too unfair.
That this world should have a safety net for people like us. After all, we are the ones who are destined for greatness, so then isn't it the world's loss as well?
There. Reaching into my familiar, I grasp what I was looking for tightly in my left hand and use my right as a lever to roll my body over to face the figure looming over me.
Lately, my sister has been on my mind, so I can't help comparing them.
They look nothing alike. Icecolle's slightly tired and lined face looks terribly normal and doesn't fit the type of dress she is wearing. It's almost as if someone tried to force it onto her. But I say that with an unsteady voice as I look into her to frozen blue eyes. With that stench of death and oppressive atmosphere, she truly is a curse incarnate.
Her eyes twitch.
"Sto-"
But as blood blossoms from my right arm flying off into the darkness, my gut-wrenching screams drowns out any words I could have mustered.